


Let me (be the one to hold you)

by WritingQuill



Series: (30) Days of Johnlock [25]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Dysfunctional Family, First Meetings, Fluff, Friendship, Holding Hands, John doesn't have a nice family, M/M, Pre-Slash, broken home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:39:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day twenty-five: gazing into each other's eyes </p><p> </p><p>They meet for the first time John saves Sherlock from some bullies and takes him home to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let me (be the one to hold you)

‘Just open your eyes, I want to check if you’ve got a concussion,’ said John, holding Sherlock’s face on his hands. He checked his pupils with a small torch he carried around everywhere — Harry always mocked him, but he knew it’d be useful someday — and smiled when he saw everything was all right. ‘Thank God, you’re fine.’ He sighed. Sherlock groaned and pulled back, leaning against the fence. 

Sherlock had been walking back home from school, but when he reached the gates, a group of bullies stopped him and beat him up. John himself was walking back from rugby practice when he saw the group huddled up clearly messing with someone, so he stopped them and roughed them up a bit, saving Sherlock from more serious injury. 

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Sherlock half-heatedly. He tried to stand up to leave. ‘Now you can go on right along, wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any further.’ 

John grinned. ‘No inconvenience at all. Come on, let me help you up.’ He placed Sherlock arm on his shoulders and pulled him up. ‘Where do you live?’ 

‘I’m fine,’ protested Sherlock, wincing as he felt a sharp pain on his temple. 

‘Clearly you’re not. I’m not going to let you walk back home alone.’ John picked Sherlock’s bag from the floor and slung it over his free shoulder. ‘Come on.’ 

Sherlock groaned again, a bit irritated, but obliged. His head really did hurt, and having John to support him was indeed quite nice. Though a bit awkward, because John was significantly shorter. They walked in silence towards the address Sherlock gave John quietly. 

As they entered a posh street, John’s breath caught in his throat. All the houses were beautiful, with ornamented doors and well-tended front gardens. He looked around, wide-eyed, as he admired them. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He knew John was a scholarship student, and it was easy to deduce that he came from a working class background. He could see his mother’s depression on his clothes, and his father’s bad habits on his wrist and neck, but since John was actually helping him instead of shunning him like most kids at school did, Sherlock refrained from commenting on any of that. 

‘It’s right here,’ he said instead, pointing at a large, grey house with a black door. The garden was beautiful, spotless and immaculate. The house itself looked like something from a dream, and John wondered privately what it would be like to live in a place like this. 

‘Okay, good. Are you all settled then? Is there anyone to take care of you?’ John asked, mostly because it was the nice thing to do and because he wanted Sherlock to be taken care of, but also because he didn’t want to go back home — he never wanted to go back home. And frankly, it wouldn’t be too bad to spend the rest of the day with the boy he’s fancied since he started school. 

Sherlock looked away and cleared his throat. ‘Yes, I’ll be fine. Thank you.’ 

John raised an unbelieving eyebrow. ‘Really? Because you’re pretty hurt, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone like this.’ 

‘Of course you don’t. You haven’t even got into medical school yet, but you already have a medical instinct.’ Sherlock said with a smirk. He couldn’t stop himself and now John was going to yell at him for his deducing like everyone else. _Damn it_ , thought Sherlock. 

Instead of chastising him, though, John’s eyes widened and he smiled. ‘You deduced me, didn’t you?’ 

‘Yes? People don’t normally react that way when I deduce them.’ 

John smiled. ‘What do people normally do, then?’ 

Sherlock pointed at the cut on his face. ‘You’ve just seen it.’ 

John’s smile fell. He knew people at school didn’t understand Sherlock, but John thought he was brilliant. He could see your whole life story just by looking at you, and if that wasn’t amazing, John didn’t know what was. And he hated when he saw people pick on Sherlock for being different, but normally, he was just too shy to start a conversation, since Sherlock always looked so mysterious and private. 

‘Well, those kids are a bunch of pretentious twats, you shouldn’t care about them.’ 

‘I don’t. People are idiots,’ Sherlock snapped, regretting it instantly. He looked back at John. ‘Most people, anyway.’ 

That earned him another smile from John. He did have a nice smile, didn’t he? ‘So, is there anyone to take care of you in there?’ John asked again. Sherlock shrugged. 

‘No.’ 

‘Okay, then I’m going in with you.’ 

* 

Sherlock’s bedroom. John was in Sherlock’s bedroom. He felt like one of those stupid kids from American high school movies. He still couldn’t believe he was in Sherlock’s bedroom. 

It was exactly like he thought it would be. 

Large, of course. Massive even. Probably bigger than John’s sitting room. And there were books everywhere, of all kinds. From Physics to Chemistry, going through Apiology, Melittology and Entomology, and Criminology, loads of biographies of serial killers, and various sensational novels. John didn’t know what to think when he saw a well-read copy of _Lady Audley’s Secret_ over a round fish bowl with a small goldfish swimming in it. The wall was bereft of posters or art, and instead held newspaper clippings, the periodic table, something that looked like a web made out of red twine, and a hand-drawn portrait of Edgar Allan Poe. 

The furniture of the room was simpler than John expected, though. Just a dark mahogany dresser, a large desk filled with more paper, books and what looked like really expensive science equipment. There was a simple double bed, unmade, with a laptop over one of the pillows, and on each side of the bed, one nightstand with a lamp, also holding small piles of books. 

The room screamed Sherlock so loudly, John would have been taken aback if it hadn’t been exactly what he was expecting. 

Now he stood awkwardly by the threshold, holding tightly on the strap of his backpack, having placed Sherlock’s bag on the floor near one of the book piles. He looked around in awe, trying to hold back a smile, though it was really difficult. Sherlock had stepped into the en suite (because of course he had a bloody en suite) probably to change and clean up. 

‘Do walk in, John, don’t just hover,’ Sherlock said from the bathroom. John stepped into the room instantly, feeling even more awkward. Now that he was here, he had no idea what to do. 

Sherlock limped out of the bathroom, wearing a pair of grey pyjama bottoms and a light blue T-shirt under a red dressing gown. He still had his socks on, and with his hair all ruffled, John thought he looked adorable. He wouldn’t say it, though. Never, ever. 

‘How are you feeling?’ John asked. 

‘Like I’ve just been hit by a very small car,’ Sherlock replied, sitting on his bed with a wince. The atmosphere was a bit awkward, mostly because both of them knew Sherlock didn’t exactly need anyone to take care of him. But that was not why John was here, was it? ‘You really don’t have to stay, John, I’ll be fine. Just sleep it off. It’s not like it’s my first beating, and it will likely not be my last.’ 

John clenched his fists at that. He hadn’t known those preppy idiots at school were doing this to Sherlock. It was ridiculous. Didn’t his parents do anything? Though, John supposed, he didn’t really have much to say on the subject of caring parents. 

‘If you want me t—‘ 

‘No, I…’ Sherlock raised a hand. ‘You can stay, but don’t pretend like you’re here to take care of me.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ of course Sherlock knew. Of course he knew, he saw everything. He even knew John wanted to be a doctor, for God’s sake.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘You know I know. You don’t want to go home. That’s why you always stay in school late, why you’ve joined the rugby team even though you clearly prefer football. Why you always arrive much earlier than everyone else, and why you volunteer to work at the library during the holidays. You don’t like to go home, most likely because it isn’t a pleasant situation, your mother is depressed, your father gambles and drinks, and your sister is joining him on that path. You haven’t made many friends because people ask too many questions, and you don’t like to share what you consider to be a burden with other people, and you want to go as far away as you possibly can from your family,’ Sherlock finished, looking at John straight in the eye. And he was right, bloody right, on all accounts. John couldn’t look away from his gaze, feeling uncomfortable yet at home under the scrutiny. He gave a nearly imperceptible nod, and Sherlock sighed, then looked away. 

‘Yes,’ John said. ‘I don’t… like to go home. I can’t concentrate, or study, or do anything there. It’s painful and sad, and I just feel so bad when I’m there.’ John laughed humourlessly. ‘We used to be fine,’ he said, and sat down on the bed next to Sherlock, who silently listened. ‘But then my dad lost his job, and started drinking — he never used to drink, ever — and I remember that it got really bad when I was about eleven. Harry was fifteen, and that’s when she came out to them. Dad almost kicked her out, and Mum just…’ he trailed off, not knowing how to continue. 

John felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Sherlock’s eyes on him. He looked sad. No pity, just sadness. Maybe he understood more than John thought. 

‘How long has it been since you’ve had a full night’s sleep?’ asked Sherlock, pointing at the dark bags under John’s eyes. 

‘Frankly, I can’t remember. There’a always… something.’ He felt like crying. But he wouldn’t. John cried once, when he was twelve, and it had been the worst night of his life, but then he looked at the figure of his passed out father on the sofa and decided he would never shed another tear because of that man, ever. 

Sherlock nodded. ‘You’ll sleep here, tonight.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘Clearly your house isn’t a safe environment, and I need looking after, so it would be beneficial to all partied if you slept here this evening. Your parents won’t mind, I’m sure, and mine are away, so it’s fine.’ 

John stared at Sherlock in shock. That was such a… nice thing, why was he doing that?

‘But… why?’ 

Sherlock shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, looking down. ‘You are different.’ 

John decided to leave it at that, and he was so tired. Sleep sounded marvellous, actually, right now, right this instant. 

‘Thank you,’ he gave Sherlock a warm smile. ‘Where should I sleep?’ 

‘Just there,’ Sherlock patted the bed. ‘It’s big enough for both of us, I’m sure.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘I won’t attack you at night if that’s what—‘ 

‘No, it… No. It’s… fine.’ 

John went to the bathroom and took off his trousers and shirt, then walked back into the room in his boxers and undershirt. Sherlock was already under the sheets. It was early evening, but clearly both of them were tired enough that they could afford the extra sleep. 

After John got under the covers next to Sherlock, feeling the warmth emanating from him, Sherlock turned off the lamps, casting darkness around them. John sighed. 

‘Thank you,’ he said after a moment of silence. Sherlock didn’t reply, but a few seconds later John felt Sherlock’s hand on his, entwining their fingers, and with the heat of Sherlock’s body and the feeling of safety for the first time in a long time, John fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I cheated a bit with the theme, but you'll forgive me, yeah? 
> 
> Also, sorry it took so long for this, but I spent the whole day finishing my 19th Century Lit essay, then I went to the cinema with a friend, and got home at 11pm. Again, forgive me? Pretty please? 
> 
> A small comment on my characterisation of teen!Sherlock here: I have this headcanon that as a teenager, Sherlock was actually a bit more open with his feelings, he hadn't locked down yet, and that got him hurt quite a few times, both emotionally and physically, which is why he later on adopts the "alone is all I have, alone protects me" ideology. It's my personal headcanon, you don't have to agree or anything, but for the sake of the story, humour me, yeah? 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, I love seeing your comments, so, you know, leave more of those :) You're the best!
> 
> Cheers x


End file.
